


dust to dust

by visiblemarket



Series: The Burial of the Dead [2]
Category: Constantine (TV)
Genre: John Constantine Kissing Dudes 2K14, M/M, john constantine moping and being a dick 2k14, normal tuesday night for john constantine, sketchy backyard burials, spoilers for 'a feast of friends'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-17
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-25 17:27:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2630159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/visiblemarket/pseuds/visiblemarket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Guess we're not calling in the coroner on this one, huh?”</p><p>“Be a bit hard to explain the wounds. And the—“ John swallows. “The state of him.”</p><p>“Standard backyard burial it is, then.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	dust to dust

**Author's Note:**

> Episode tag for "A Feast of Friends".

He hears the voice from far away at first: a low, questioning rumble, no fully formed words, at least none he can distinguish.

It doesn’t matter right now.

The voice gets closer. He doesn’t pay it much mind; his hand cramps, and he flexes his fingers. 

“John.”

He doesn’t react. There’s a hand on his shoulder. He should shrug it off, but—it doesn’t matter. 

“John. He's gone, now. You can let go.”

 _Can I?_ , he doesn’t say. Turns out he can, though, and does. The hand on his shoulder gives him a squeeze, like he’s done something right, though he can’t imagine what.

“Come on, hey. Come here," he hears behind him, calm and careful, before he’s guided up from his chair. His legs ache from disuse but deign to support him for the moment. “John?"

He tries to focus. 

Turns out, he can't.

"John? _John_ —"

*

He wakes to a killer headache and a rather insulting amount of natural light, which'd be bad enough, normally, except it also manages to cast broad and untenable shadows in every corner, which is rarely a good sign. Also, he's got a warm, wet flannel folded across his brow, and that's just embarrassing.

"Fucking hell."

One of the shadows snorts. "Yeah, that about covers it."

John lets out breath. "You're back, then."

"I am." 

John drags the wet cloth off his head and plops it on the bedside table, then forces himself to sit up. "Zed called you, did she?"

Chas emerges from the darkness; arms-crossed, frowning, typical Disappointed Chas face. There's no point in denying he's glad to see him, but he tries not to grin too much. Can't give the man any bigger a head, after all.

" _You_ should've called me."

John sighs and reaches into his pockets. Empty, of course. He's suddenly a lot less glad Chas is here. "Sorry, mate. Didn't think I'd need you."

"How'd that work out?"

"Well, city's not exactly overrun by a nasty hunger demon, 's far as I know." He shrugs. "Broadly speaking I think we'd call it a win, yeah?"

"And you?"

"Not overrun by a nasty hunger demon either, mate."

"Yeah, I'll say."

He should know better than to engage. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You haven't had anything to eat or drink in two days, as far as Zed could tell. That's how long you were in there with him, by the way."

"Felt like less.” It hadn't. It'd felt like decades, centuries maybe. He's not about to tell Chas that. Melodramatic as hell, it'd sound, and Chas is sensitive. “These things take as long as they take, mate. Couldn't leave— _can't leave_ someone alone when they're in that state. 's bad form. Tempting fate. You know how it is."

Chas shakes his head, and presses his lips together. He walks over anyway, and settles down on the edge of the bed next to John, and takes his hand, though only to press two white pills to his palm. 

"What's this, then?" he says, swallowing them in one painful gulp.

"Aspirin," Chas says, handing him a glass of water, seemingly out of nowhere. "For your headache."

“Haven't got a headache," he says, sipping gratefully at the tepid water.

Chas gives him the indulgent daddy smile and pats his chest. "Of course not.”

John finds himself smiling back, and glancing down at the hand against his heart. His fingers twitch from the absence of anything else to hold. His breath catches: after two days, apparently, of nothing but the proverbial icy chill of death, the radiated warmth of Chas, who runs hot to begin with, is like a furnace. He reaches out, precise but without pretense or hesitation, tangles his fingers in ends of Chas's red-checked shirt, and drags him closer.

"John," he says, low, but it’s a warning, not a refusal. 

"What's wrong, mate?" he murmurs, low enough that his voice catches, that Chas has to lean in. “Know you wanna _help_ me. Know you wanna make me feel..." their mouths are close enough to share breaths, and John can smell the forest on him, the fresh, living air. "…better."

"It’s not the best time, John."

John runs his hands up along Chas's ribs. “Isn't it?"

“You've got a dead man in your guest bedroom—"

“Ah, he’ll stay put—"

"And Zed's at the door."

John glances over: the silhouetted tell-tale curls and taut body language leave no doubt in his mind. He turns back to Chas and looks up at him adoringly. “Whatever you say, love.”

There’s an exasperated huff from the door, and when he looks back, it’s empty. 

He can’t hold back the snort, and when Chas slaps him upside the head he breaks into real laughter.

“Ow! Christ, mate. Like she's never seen a grown man try to pull his best friend before," he says, and Chas ducks his head. Not fast enough to hide his laugh, though, and John takes it as a victory. He could use one about now.

“Well, I guess she’ll have to get used to it if she’s planning on sticking around.”

John smirks. “Too right she will.” 

Chas pushes him back down against the mattress and stands. “Get it together, John,” he says, soft and even, and John nods, to himself as much as Chas. 

He drags himself out of bed. It’s not as hard as it should be. "Two days, you said?"

Chas nods.

"Not feeling dehydrated enough for that,” he says, bending over to search for his boots. "I mean, a bit, yeah, but—"

Chas clears his throat; John straightens, and finds his boots being pressed against his chest; he hops into them as Chas keeps talking.

"You were kind of out of it when I got here. I got some fluids in you, got you to bed, and then you passed out."

"Did I say anything?"

"Nothing we need to talk about right now."

John raises his eyebrows in inquisition; Chas deflects it with a slow shake of the head. That's enough for John, who shrugs.

“Speakin' of things we do need to talk about…”

“Guess we're not calling in the coroner on this one, huh?”

“Be a bit hard to explain the wounds. And the—“ John swallows. “The state of him.”

“Standard backyard burial it is, then.”

“We’ll need shovels. And the rest."

“I’ll have to go back into town,” Chas says, slowly, with the _And I don’t trust you to take care of yourself right now_ strongly implied.

John ducks his head. “Good. Take Zed with you.”

“Why?”

“‘cause the alternative is her sticking round and tryin’ to talk to me.” 

“John—“

“Yeah, mate?” John looks up at him again; he tries not to look _too_ pitiful, but just enough to avoid further questions. 

Chas sighs. “I’ll ask,” he says, and heads toward the door. He turns back. "Try and get some food in you while we’re gone."

"'m not a bloody invalid, Chas. I'm not _sick_."

"Well, that's debatable," Chas says, under his breath, and John grins and blows him a kiss.

"You say the sweetest things, love."

Chas rolls his eyes.

*

He showers, the hot water scalding his skin.

He shaves, nicking his skin in the process but not noticing till he looks in the mirror and sees the blood dripping down his cheek.

New shirt. New pants. New tie. 

Same John Constantine, and more's the pity.

Chas has left him soup, because of course he has. 

He eats; not because he’s hungry, because he’s not, but he hasn't much else to do, and it’d be a shame to let something go to waste.

*

They’re back within the hour. John’s outside to greet them, having tired of the silence inside a lot quicker than he’d expected.

He doesn’t say a word as he helps them unload: two shovels, three folded-up plastic sheets, and some sort of large plastic container that’s been lashed to the roof of the cab. As close to a coffin as Chas was probably able to get, bless him. 

Zed and Chas both eye him warily, but it’s Chas who pats his shoulder, leans in to practically whisper in his ear. “Did you eat?”

John nods, then pulls away, and walks off with one shovel and one plastic sheet in tow. 

It’s about a fifteen minute walk to the spot he’s chosen, and they make it mostly in silence, though John can practically _feel_ the pointed looks the two of them are giving each other, and the back of his head, behind him. 

It doesn’t matter. 

He stops. Points. Draws an X in the earth with the toe of his boot, drops his shovel and his plastic, and steps back, almost bumping into Zed as he searches for a tree to lean against. She opens her mouth to say something; he shakes his head, and looks pointedly away. 

He watches Chas mark out the dimensions of the grave, slashing the dark earth with the shining tip of a new shovel. Watches him start to dig, dumping the first layer of topsoil into a neat pile a few centimeters from the edge. He’s efficient, is Chas, in this as in everything, and John gets caught up in watching him.

“John.”

He does not startle. “Yeah?"

"You could help."

It's true. He could. He jumps down into the start of the grave and holds out his hand; Chas hands him his shovel, and he begins to dig. 

He's not quick about it, but he's careful: it's good, honest work, ditch digging. He's heard someone say that before, but can't be arsed to remember who, meaning it was probably his father.

Chas rests his hand on John's shoulder; John nods in acknowledgement, but ignores what ever it is he says and keeps digging. He hears Chas heave himself out of the hole and walk away, back toward the mill house.

Not Zed, though. Zed's up there, glaring down the back of his neck. Sweat’s begun to trickle, more likely from the digging than the stare down, but he'll give her some credit for the itch between his shoulders.

"Is this what you do, John?" her voice cuts through the relative still of the forest. He doesn't look back.

"Dig graves for my friends?" he calls back. "S'ppose that's technically true, though it's usually more in a metaphorical kind of--"

"Draw men in, then drag them down with you?"

 _Oh, for the love of bloody Christ in_ — he forces himself silent, calm, even. "Yeah, that's me, love. A regular Mata Hari." He glances back at her over his shoulder; winks. "Not just men, though."

"You're disgusting."

“Yeah.” He turns back around. "It's been said."

He hears her huff, then stamp around to the other side of the grave, where he has to obviously look down to avoid her eyes. 

"Jesus, you're an ass," she snaps, as he looks up. "Not because of..." she waves a hand over him. " _That_. Because you’re still acting like this is all a joke to you."

He snorts. "Yeah, love. Huge bloody joke. Ha—" he stabs the dirt with his shovel. "Fucking—" he flings the dirt out behind him. "Ha."

"Oh, so you _are_ upset," she says, faux sympathetic.

"No, not at all. Just waiting for the next _man_ I can lure back into my web of sex and dark magic and—"

And she jumps down into the grave with him, _because of course she bloody does_. "This was bad, John. You should be upset."

"If I got upset every time I got a friend killed, love, I'd've run out of up to set a long time ago."

Zed's brow furrows amusingly while she tries to figure that one out, and John chuckles to himself as he turns around to start digging at another corner.

"John," her voice is softer now, and somehow that's worse.

"What?" he says, as the shovel digs into the earth in front of him.

"It's okay to—" 

He whirls around; dirt spatters around him. “Don't try and tell me what's _okay_ , love. This is my fucking path, not yours, my fucking decisions—my business how I deal with the consequences, so—"

"You're not alone."

He almost drops the shovel; she reaches out for it, and it remains grasped between them like a beloved toy. " _What?_ "

"You keep acting like you think you are. Like you've forgotten Chas and I are here, too."

"I haven't forgotten you're here."

"You did this morning," she says, smug, and that's enough. 

"Get out," he says.

She cocks her head. Gives him a long, sad, pitying look, pushes the shovel back into his chest, and hops out of the grave. 

John listens to her walk away; once she's far enough to not be heard, he leans a hand against the cool earth beside him, and counts to ten.

He starts digging again.

*

The sun has begun to set and the forest has begun to stir with life again by the time the hole's deep enough.

He and Chas carry the makeshift coffin out; it’s light enough John probably could’ve managed on his own, but he appreciates the help. 

Filling the grave’s simple enough, quicker than digging it. And then all that’s left to do is tamp down the earth, say a few words, and walk away. 

Chas asks him if there’s anything he wants to say, which is a hell of a thing to ask, because when isn’t there? But he just shakes his head, and is surprised to find Zed’s hand on his arm. It stays there, gentle and steady, as the low susurration of Chas’s voice rustles through the trees and settles over the earth.

*

John doesn’t pray. He doesn’t kneel. He doesn’t _ask_ , and he doesn’t expect.

But he waits.

John stands before a fresh, unmarked grave, and he lights a cigarette, and he waits.

The stars rise above him, and the aches and exhaustion of his body drag at him, and the thirst in his throat nearly chokes him.

But still. He waits.

*

The world doesn’t still. Nothing, no _one_ , arrives. Time crawls on.

*

It must be almost midnight by the time Chas comes for him. Wraps a blanket over him. Presses a hot drink into his hands. Says, apropos of nothing, "From what Zed told me, you did what you had to do."

John laughs, and turns away from his vigil. "Zed doesn't think so."

"But I do." Chas drops a quick kiss to his temple and squeezes his shoulders. 

John steps aside and ducks his head. “Always on my side, aren't you."

“Does that bother you?” 

“What’re you, my bloody therapist, now?”

“I’m asking a question.” John takes a slow sip of hot tea, and doesn’t answer. Chas sighs. “Are you ready to come in?”

“Why d’you ask?”

“Because it’s been a long day, and I can’t go to sleep with you out here, and I kinda want to go to sleep.”

John takes another sip. “Always so eager to get me into bed, mate,” he says, and pats at Chas’s chest with his free hand. “All you had to do was ask."

*

It’d been brisk outside, but somehow, inside, it’s colder, cold enough to raise the hair on his arms and send a shiver through him. The tingling sensation's disturbingly akin to the feeling of a thousand insect legs skittering over his skin, and he can't suppress a shudder.

“Cold?”

John nods, for all the good that’ll do in the dark, and ventures: “A bit.”

“Come here,” Chas grabs his arm, and, amidst some half-hearted and insincere grumbling on John’s part, drags him over easily. John presses his cheek to Chas’s chest; Chas runs a hand through his hair, soothing him. “Come on, kid. It’s all right.”

“Kid, eh?” he sighs, and lets himself relax. “Haven’t called me that in a while.”

“Guess not.” Chas ruffles his hair. “You mind?”

John shrugs. Chas chuckles, and gives John’s shoulder another pat. “Get some sleep, kid."

He tries.

*

Chas's heartbeat is a strong, steady rumble beneath his ear.

It's almost loud enough to drown out Gaz's screams.

**Author's Note:**

> Y'know I never really planned for a sequel/companion/continuation to [earth to earth](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2596085), but the title fit and, well. Here we are.


End file.
